Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [50]
Twisting round, Peter saw the youth’s anguished face through the back window.
He turned away in disgust.
When the hansom stopped in the forecourt of Charing Cross Station, where Peter was booked on the Dover train, he told his manservant, “Get a porter. Now, you,” he said, glaring at Jonathan, “run along.”
“Take me with you. I’ll do anything. I hate the life here. Please.”
In his anger and distress, Peter could not help noticing that tears did not mar or blotch the beauty of that face. He decided to pretend that Jonathan did not exist.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he was finally settled by his manservant in a first-class compartment. “Take care of the house when I am gone,” said Peter.
Just as the train began to move forwards out of the station, the carriage door opened and Jonathan tumbled in.
“What am I to do?” demanded the furious Peter. “I cannot call the guard in case you shame me further.”
“I thought it was a joke. I never expected to like you so much. I’m frightened,” said Jonathan.
Peter raised a newspaper and pretended to read. After several miles, the quiet sobbing opposite melted him a little.
“Luncheon is served,” called a waiter.
Peter sighed and lowered the newspaper. “Dry your eyes. We may as well eat.”
Rose wondered what on earth was going on. “If only we could get to the captain’s office,” she said to Daisy.
“We could simply say we were going for a walk,” said Daisy.
“At the moment we are not allowed out of the house.”
“I’ll watch by the window and see whether my lord and my lady go out. My lord goes to his club most days.” Daisy took up a position by the window.
After quarter of an hour, she said, “There he goes. Now we need to wait for Lady Polly.”
The day dragged on. Rose read while Daisy kept watch. “Lady Polly has just left,” she exclaimed.
Rose put down her book. “How do we get past the servants?”
“They’ll be taking afternoon tea,” said Daisy. “If we hurry, we should get out unnoticed.”
“What about coming back?”
“Let’s worry about that later. We’ll go to Chelsea. He may have finished work by the time we get there.”
At Harry’s Chelsea home, Daisy bit back an exclamation of disappointment as Phil opened the door to them.
“Is Captain Cathcart at home?” asked Rose.
“I am expecting him at any moment.”
Rose handed him her card. “We will wait.”
“Certainly, my lady. Step this way. Sherry, my lady?”
“Yes, please.”
“Who on earth is that?” hissed Daisy when Phil had left the room.
“I believe he is some down-and-out that the captain rescued from poverty.”
Phil returned carrying sherry glasses and a decanter on a tray. He carefully poured two glasses and handed one to Rose and then one to Daisy.
He bowed low. “Will there be h’anythink else, my lady?”
“No, I thank you.”
Phil bowed his way out of the room.
Daisy looked around the book-lined parlour. “You would think with all the money he’s making he would find a more fashionable address.”
“Shh! I hear a motor car.”
Harry walked in, followed by Becket. “Lady Rose! What brings you here?”
“I must know what is going on,” said Rose. “What was in that photograph?”
Becket helped Harry out of his coat and took his hat and stick. He smiled at Daisy, who gave him a cheeky wink.
Harry sat down. “The photograph was of Sir Peter in a compromising position with a beautiful youth wearing a mask.”
“You can’t mean . . . Gentlemen don’t . . .”
“I am afraid they do. Berrow and Banks paid the young man to entrap Sir Peter.”
“Have you been to Kerridge? You must tell the police.”
“I cannot tell the police. Kerridge would be honour-bound to arrest Sir Peter. He would be charged with acts of gross indecency and sentenced to hard labour.”
Rose’s face was bright red. “I never imagined . . . I never thought . . . Where is Peter?”
“Well on his way to the south of France, I hope.”
Rose stared at him for a long moment. “Do you see what this means? If Berrow and Banks hired this youth to compromise Sir Peter, then they are probably the ones who hired the assassin